


Death's Beating Heart

by stormjay0



Category: Hermitcraft, Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Gen, Hermitcraft - Freeform, Hermitcraft demise, Minor Violence, demise - Freeform, hermits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:41:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21853111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormjay0/pseuds/stormjay0
Summary: Demise has ended, and the last hermit alive is faced with a grim truth- the dead are not returning to their colorful selves. In a post-apocalyptic Hermitcraft, will the hermit find a way to renew the Grayskins to their former selves? Or will they, too, fall among the ranks of the dead?
Comments: 41
Kudos: 106





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published fic, comments are greatly appreciated! updates to come frequently!

Prologue

The sky is clear today, the first clear day in weeks. A harsh wind lashes the face of a figure standing atop a tarnished green statue. They watch the smoke dance in the air, all whirling wheels and coiling tendrils until it dissipates to re-form elsewhere. The figure removes the ragged scarf covering their nose and mouth for a few stolen breaths, a snatched moment of fresh air, before the smoke returns. The sun, a fiery constant in this new world, begins its descent, joined by the descent of the figure, on battered wings. The darkness of night holds fresh terrors for the unprepared. But they know better than to rely on the luck of the unwary.


	2. Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the shopping district is as dusty as my writing abilities

Small fires blaze in what was once the shopping district. Smoke and ash fill the air, leaving a gray haze over the dilapidated stores. The only colors in this place are the gaudy dyes of wool and glass, plastered with the marks of the Convex. Memories of friendly business rivalries and deals hover at the edge of the hermit’s mind. But now is not the time to reminisce. This district is the most heavily trapped, and for the next few crucial moments, the hermit is vulnerable. The most important element is focus.

The hermit, with practiced caution, dodges a tripwire stretching across their path. They duck under a dispenser, spinning as they do so to avoid the arrows from its companion. The hermit tosses a few eggs at the doorway, and a chick emerges into its new world only to plummet to death by lava at the signal of an observer. The hidden trap uncovered, the hermit steps inside the shop. A quick sweep of the room reveals no new obstacles, but when they make their way to the chests against the wall, the venomous sting of a pufferfish shoots a white bolt of agony through their leg. The reflexive shout of pain is stifled by the scarf around their mouth. But still the hermit presses on. Food is growing scarce, and the deadly district must be braved if they are to survive.

The smog has deepened in color. Sand from a nearby desert, whirled about by the wind, stings the face of the hermit as they press on. All vegetation has ceased to grow here, as with most of the world, as a result of the increasing deathly presence. The dry, cracked earth stands as a pitiful reminder of the green that used to cover it. The hermit’s boots cut through the top layer of dust as they dodge and weave. A scurry to a neighboring barrel proves worthwhile; the treasure within consisting of several carrots and- a real treat- three loaves of bread. The hermit allows themself the crust of one as they continue the search for resources. A red residue permeates the soil here. Whether redstone or blood, the hermit can’t tell. Knowing the dead, it is likely a mixture of the two. The sickly red complements the umber shades of the ground, a broken maroon tribute to the former glory of the harmonious, useful, competitive, exploitable, broken, twisted, deadly district.

The hermit is careful. They return to the bunker alive. Today was a success, a stride within the struggle. But this will not be their last trip, nor is this their first bunker. The days trudge on, every one a fight for survival. This place, once a familiar home, has become a living nightmare to its survivors. Its survivor. Day by day, the hermit is forced into fighting against their own demise. The unforgiving world and its dead souls show no pity for the living. This is a world of pain and traps. This is deadly. This is cruel.  
This is Hermitcraft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> adjectives


	3. Imbalance

This world hasn’t always been this way. Once the very image of harmony and friendship, the eager creators flourished Hermitcraft. Build-offs and friendly rivalries, pranks and gifts, machines and architectural wonders were all marks of this seemingly perfect world. But perfection has its breaking point, and the cracks in the serenity began with a simple game.

The season has been going on for quite some time. Its record length naturally called for a new, wildly different event to sustain its momentum. And so the newest hermit tested limits before unmentioned, unknowingly breaking the unspoken laws behind the very code of the server itself.

The game was dubbed “Demise” by its creator, the rules simple; if a hermit was to demise, they would remain that way, dead, until the game reached its end. If a hermit happened to remain alive, and be the last to do so, glory and prizes would be theirs. A few more restrictions led to creative ways of ending a hermit’s life; before long, those still living would do well to watch their step, lest they plummet into a trap. Demise was all fun and games, with an albeit grim twist. The Greyskins, as the dearly departed titled themselves, embraced their trickster sides with dastardly contraptions that claimed the color of their lively hermit counterparts. The alive, in whichever various groups they formed, did their best to avoid an untimely demise at the hands of the cold-blooded. All went smoothly, several hermits converting to the other side whether by their own clumsiness or by means of a cleverly placed trap. After a few months, the server had split fairly evenly between warmbloods and cold, with nearly equal teams at a standstill to one another. A false symmetry of sorts hung in the air. 

And just like that, the balance tipped.

The game increased its intensity, claiming even the faded red of its creator’s jumper. Wings and armor disappeared with lives as traps became inescapable and deadly not only to players, but to creations and items as well. The dead’s intent became relentless, an undying thirst to quench the flames of those still alive. Friendships grew strained and truces grew meaningless as the Greyskins strove to drain the color from each and every last hermit until they all felt the cold pressure of a gravestone above their heads. The game had encompassed the server, an unseen force that crept into the hermits’ very selves, corrupting and graying all that it could until the soul of Hermitcraft was no longer present, replacing its inhabitants with a cold-blooded hunger to finish off the last of the living. Demise had warped the dead beyond recognition of their former selves, now with a single goal. It truly gave new meaning to “survival”.

The hermit is the last of the alive. By the rules of Demise, riches and honor were theirs. What a shallow prize it seems now.

When the hermit realized how bad it had gotten, they hid themselves away. Three alive remained then. The hermit does not know the fate of the others, and prefers to keep it that way. Even this short reminiscence of the past has awoken a sharp pain, deeper than that of any pufferfish’s poison. The hermit’s friends, its family, corrupted beyond reach, fallen to the claws of the twisted game. Grian knew not what he had unintentionally brought into the world; nor did Ren, or Cub, or any others who added their heads to the wall and fell to the clutches of Demise. The bloodthirst had not stopped at the participants of the game. Zedaph, who had opted out, was no match for the swords of the dead, unbound by the rules banning player versus player combat, and outnumbered in droves. 

The colorless hermits are relentless. They are not easy for the hermit to avoid, for although their sight has been dullened, the rest of their senses have sharpened, ideal for hunting a hermit. The last hermit is constantly on the move, never inhabiting the same place twice, noting every tripwire and button. For although the game has been won, the dead have not ceased in their pursuit. They will not rest until the last hermit’s life has been snuffed out, the fate of the server sealed by their final resting place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asdfghjkl im tired


	4. Mercy

Another risky trip to the shopping district has proved successful for the hermit, this one resulting in several golden carrots, a glistening memorial to the once-glorious Sahara. The hermit hurtles a low stone wall, heading out of the district. An eerie silence hangs in the air. 

The wind blows with a sudden chill, distorting a voice that carries from nearby.  
“Hey.”  
The hermit’s blood runs cold. They begin a slow turn towards the source of the voice, hoping it was imagined. With no such luck, their heart sinking, the hermit spots Scar leaning casually on the dilapidated wall. A blue-tinted Vex mask flickers over his greyscale features, showing the cruel nature hiding behind his easy smile.  
“You know, I’d probably be well rewarded for these coordinates right about now…” He idly taps at his communicator, adding and deleting numbers.  
The hermit swallows, backing away slowly. Scar observes the effort to flee and giggles, matching their steps, advancing.  
A poorly placed grass block-was that there before?-and the hermit is sprawling, caught off guard. Scar has the upper hand in an instant, lever and tnt poised. Still, something causes him to hesitate. The hermit notices. Perhaps there’s something left of Scar after all. They look directly up into his eyes, begging.  
“Scar. Please.”

Those two words are enough to make his cocky demeanor falter. The hermit slips away as Scar mutters to himself, considering for even a moment the still-human side that remains within him. The master builder was never well-suited for this lifestyle (well, deathstyle), and he is one of the few with scraps of humanity left. This small piece of sympathy gives the hermit enough time to duck behind the wall and disappear in an instant.

The source of Scar’s hesitation vanishes, and the hermit, deep underground, hears his angry cry echo the abandoned storefronts. A safe distance away, they catch their breath in the musty tunnels below the surface. Once the hermit decides their location is secure, they chance a cautious opening of a chest, reaching for a bow and set of arrows. Twanging the string skeptically, they nod and move on, operating as the picture of efficiency to make up for the day’s blunder, if only to prove it to themselves. 

The hermit considers their luck, having run into the milder member of the Convex’s duo. Any crossing of Cub’s path has led to many hermits’ deaths in the history of this morbid game. The rougeish hermit, an unpredictable mastermind, is perhaps the most dedicated to the chilling of warm blood. An encounter with Cub is most certainly fatal. 

The buzz of a battered communicator jostles the hermit out of these unpleasant thoughts. 

-GoodTimesWithScar- Nothing in the shopping district  
-Cubfan135- Keep looking. They’ll be there.

So, whether by his own pride, or by some shred of sympathy, Scar has decided to spare the hermit for today. Whether to count it as assistance or an anomaly, the hermit does not know. Perhaps a bit of both, one from each side of the conflicted one of the Convex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first dialogue of the story- there will be more!


	5. Stifled

A pickaxe slices into the cool stone like a knife through butter. Angry at themselves for the near-fatal mistake, the hermit channels their frustration to a mine, branching out from their escape route until the coordinates become more and more unfamiliar. Paradoxically, the dim, cramped tunnels of the mine allow the hermit to unwind. As the strokes of the pickaxe mirror every few beats of the heart, they take deep breaths and calm themselves. Today was a fluke, a mistake. They are smart, and wary; it won’t happen to them again. 

Never one to waste resources, the hermit digs deeper into the heart of the earth, searching for diamonds. In a fleeting moment, they recall the heaping pile of the gems, laden atop the hand of death in the minigame district. The coveted prize has since been moved to the looming mansion of the Deadquarters, bait with which to lure in a hermit. Diamonds have a compelling power. 

-Renthedog- Greyskins, meet at the Deadquarters  
-Renthedog- We have something to discuss  
-Renthedog- And a feast to consume!

The hermit’s shaky calm cracks at the transception from the Reaper. Head down, they strike more fervently into the hard stone. 

Hours pass. The hermit breaks out of their methodical daze and looks around. Blank, blank stone, block after block after block spans in a grey haze, surrounding them. The hermit is suddenly aware of their current condition, fingernails caked with grit, hands and arms encrusted in flaky redstone and coal dust, itching, coating every inch of their skin. The comfort of the close walls is gone, and they seem to move in closer to the hermit, losing their friendly familiarity for something cold and strange, pressing in closer and closer until the hermit is trapped, trapped in this room, trapped in this world, with no one but themselves and their own demise growing ever closer, ever larger-

Fear hangs in the air for a moment. The hermit’s resolve to stay strong, to continue despite the pain, to forget about the friends that shaped and supported them, crumbles. The dam breaks. Memories of sunny days and happy moments flood in. The feeling of family, lost to the cruel game, strikes its blow to the hermit’s heart.

Curled into a ball, they lie on the unfeeling stone floor. The sun sets, and the hermit cries. 

Dawn breaks with fresh purpose. The pain of the night before burns with a new strength. No longer will the hermit cower in fear from those they once loved. At whatever cost, no matter how difficult, the hermit will not yield. No longer can they shield themselves from feeling the devastation of loss, no longer can they numb themselves from the hurt that creeps in nonetheless. But they will not allow it to control them. Fear and pain must fuel the furnace of their courage. The alternative? Death. 

The hermit reaches for their pickaxe yet again. They mine upwards this time, creating a pathway to the harsh surface above. A deep inhale, and they begin their ascent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> angst angst angst angst


	6. Repose

The surface world emerges after a short tunneling. It’s begun to rain, cold droplets spattering the dirt and making the already treacherous area slippery with mud. The hermit pulls on a sturdy pair of leather boots, less protective than the metal confines of gold and iron, but more suitable for a trek in the woods. Trees, they figure, will provide inconspicuous cover from hermits searching from the skies or skimming around the edges of civilization. They head for a less clear area with denser underbrush. 

Gazing at their surroundings during the short hike, the hermit realizes the little effect of demise on the forest. With much of the more developed areas matching the faded grey of the dead, or at least powdered with dust, the hermit expects to see trees covered in grime, the soft greys of birch hardened and the earthy tones of oak stained darker. But while these shades are present closer to the borders of cultivated land, the plant life deeper into the forest retains its soft yet vibrant greens and browns. The rain begins to dissipate, giving an ever clearer view of its beauty. 

Marveling at the preservation of the deeper forest, the hermit fails to notice the sinking of the sun behind said trees. Before long, night threatens the peaceful scene, and the hermit halts their stroll, clearing an area of brush for a fire and a makeshift shelter. 

The hermit strikes up a blaze with their flint and steel, leaving the campfire with a plethora of small twigs and leaves for kindling. They scan the area around it for a suitable place to raise their shelter. A branch spanning two trees proves helpful, and in moments a modest temp is created by draping a blanket between them and setting a cot underneath it. Noting the sun declining ever faster, they place lanterns at intervals around the campsite, the surplus sources of light adding a warm glow to the scene. 

A smell of smoke threatens the hermit’s senses. Knowing they have little time to use the fire before it becomes a revealing liability, they smoke a few slabs of meat to store for the journey and douse the flames with a stored water bucket. Making a note to find a stream and refill the bucket, the hermit takes a final look at the star-dotted sky above, beautiful even with its implied warning of danger, and settles into their cot for the night. The first day on the surface has been braved and won, and the hermit will be well prepared for the journey of tomorrow. In the midst of encroaching danger, they have found a snatched moment of peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> peaceful ending?


	7. Plummet

This is a problem.

The quiet serenity of the night before has vanished. The hermit, stomach plummeting, finds they have woken up in possibly the least pleasant place to do so. 

The Deadquarters.

Scrambling to sit up, the hermit looks around frantically at their hostile surroundings. They’re in a mostly empty room, composed entirely of stone bricks and without a visible door or exit. Five levers line the closest wall, identical, in a row. The hermit gulps. The dead are up to what they do best- playing a game. 

The puzzle seems to be a simple one. There are five possible choices; five levers; presumably, one of them opens an exit. The rest can only mean one thing- an untimely demise. Making a second visual sweep of the room, the hermit finds no clues, no method of determining which lever performs which function. Very well then. The hermit poises themselves, elytra engaged and rockets in hand, and starts toward the wall. Immediately, the room is plunged into darkness. Lovely. 

The hermit takes an unsteady step, then another, towards the wall of levers. A string pulls taut, and they are sent sprawling onto the stone floor. After lying frozen for a few seconds, they cautiously come to the conclusion that the tripwire wasn’t set to trigger anything. However, it certainly hadn’t been there before the lights dropped, a theory that is only refuted by the delirious chuckle emanating from a space behind the walls. Annoyed, the hermit snaps the tripwire and feels for the edge of the room. 

After a minute or so of navigating the room by touch, the hermit reaches the levers. Gripping their rockets tightly, they hold a breath and engage the first of them. The faint click of a dispenser betrays its intention. Frantically dropping to the floor, the hermit hears the piercing whistles of arrows and their clang on impact that reverberates in the empty room. When the fleet of flint-and-feather missiles relents, light is fleetingly restored to the chamber, temporarily blinding the hermit but illuminating the damage to the wall adjacent. As the hermit cringes at the thought of the arrows’ intended targets, darkness is restored to the room and they stumble in their attempt to stand. 

Four more levers lie ahead. The hermit grasps the next available one and yanks it downward, stepping back. Nothing happens at first, and for a split second they are relieved by the possibility that they have in fact selected the safe one.

In the next second, dread replaces that relief. The darkness of the room is again cut through with light, but not from the original source; instead a sickly orange glow emanates from below as the floor drops out from underneath and the hermit plummets towards the lava below.

Reflexes firing, they rise up again as quickly as they fall, rockets fizzing as they propel themselves toward the ceiling with their elytra. The lava stays put, however, and their rockets will run out soon. Glancing at the molten pool, the hermit gets an itching feeling that there’s something else to the trap. Choosing to trust their instincts, the hermit takes in a deep breath, releases the trigger on their rockets, and lets themselves drop, freefalling into the fiery confines of a molten demise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohoho
> 
> -sidenote: commenters i love you guys so much-


	8. Games

A surge of heat, a surge of light, a surge of pain; their stomach dropping, their body dropping; falling, falling in a sickening plunge-

And they pass a clear space filled only by signs, and the rush is over, ending in safety, a pool of murky water. The hermit lets out a relieved sigh and takes in a shaky breath, knowing as they did before that the dead favors their games, playing with their prey before they legitimately make attempts at killing them, and the escape route of the room only proves so. Allowing themselves time to refocus, the hermit struggles out of the roughly dug pit of water and emerges, dripping, onto a carpeted platform. They stand there for a moment, surveying the terrain ahead and wondering at the challenges ahead.

The quick rest is enough time for a wall to split and reveal a doorway that immediately vanishes back into a stark grey surface. Hearing the firing of pistons, the hermit whirls around to find a figure behind them. Their heart plummets once more. Their view of the room reveals no place for traps, and player versus player combat is impossible, but still the figure fills the hermit with dread. The shadow moves, revealing itself by stepping into the light.

“Congratulations,” Xisuma trills, taking another step forward. “You’ve beaten the first puzzle. Finish all of them, and glory will be yours!” He spreads his arms in a dramatic gesture.

“I don’t want to play your games, X. Why am I here?” The hermit’s bravery begins to slip away, chilled by the cold demeanor of the dead.

Xisuma chuckles. “I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice. And games are fun, are they not? I’m certainly entertained.”

“I’m sure you are,” the hermit deadpans. “Tell me the truth. Have you finally decided to end it? Are you done with your elaborate traps and plans, just gonna bring the axe down now?”

Xisuma’s face changes from delight to a calm smirk. “Oh no, we plan to give you every chance to escape. There are two more puzzles; outsmart those simple two, and live to see another day! Of course, if you don’t escape… well, we dead are more than happy to welcome you into our ranks.”

“And what happens then? What would that mean for us, X? For this entire world? Have you paused to consider the consequences? This could be our end! The end of Hermitcraft!” The hermit is desperate, close to screaming now. 

But Xisuma just laughs lightly and signals for his exit to reopen, sealing the hermit inside the room alone once more. “Good luck.”

The hermit rushes to the fading opening, pounding on the impenetrable wall where the door once was. But to no avail. The stone is as smooth and unyielding as ever. The hermit sighs and leaves their position at the wall, cautiously peeking around the approaching corner. Seemingly safe, they proceed towards the end of a dimly lit corner. Clear signs of a piston door beckon to the hermit, an inviting lever calling them to continue, deeper into the bowels of the Deadquarters. 

The hermit takes a final look around the room, and pulls the lever. The door springs into action, and they apprehensively step forward into the next chamber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm running out of fitting vague chapter titles aaaaah


	9. Panel

Another corridor, lit only by the dim scarlet glow of redstone torches, lies in wait for the hermit. A few more careful steps lead them deeper into the room as the clicking and shifting of interlocking pistons closes the entrance behind them. The hermit stops at a heavy wine-red curtain. Rather than pulling it aside, they choose to duck underneath it on a whim. Unfortunately, this evasive action does nothing in the way of avoiding traps. The motion of the curtain, however slight, earns the hermit an arrow to the foot.

The hermit pauses to pull the arrow out, noticing as they do that a glowing aura has settled around them. They realize it must be one of Cub’s spectral arrows, and shudder at the thought of Cub-caliber traps. Not only must they now be cautious of playful yet potentially deadly traps- they now need also watch for the mark of a nuke-happy Cub. 

Replacing the shoe on their now blood-soaked sock, the hermit tosses the arrow aside and re-evaluates, continuing forward. Before long, the dim, cramped corridor opens up into a large, glass viewing room with a sleek control panel at the head. Curiosity piqued, the hermit leans to examine the panel. Buttons and levers stretch across it, accompanied by blinking lights, seemingly acting of their own accord. 

Glancing past the panel, the hermit takes in the view from beyond the glass. Cracked and mossy stone bricks span in an almost spiralling pattern, centered around a faintly glowing area, pulsating in the very middle of it all. The hermit recognizes the twisting hallways as a sort of maze, with the glass room acting as a viewing platform. But who-or what- is the hermit meant to view? The corridors seem empty, or at least inactive.

A mere second later, that question is answered as the floor behind the panel shatters. Glass shards jab into the hermit as they fall, hard, onto the carpet of the stone labyrinth. Jerking their head upward furiously, the hermit searches for the source of the trap, wondering what could have smashed the glass. They are met with a wave and cheeky grin from the grey face of Mumbo. The hermit shoots him a withering glare.   
“Ow.”

Mumbo tilts his head. “You shouldn’t have taken too much fall damage from that one. I counted the blocks!” He flicks at another lever. “This one should work better.”

A water stream spurts out of the wall, accompanied by a small pufferfish. Turning away from Mumbo, the hermit jumps aside in time to avoid all but a small twinge of pain from its spikes. 

Mumbo, meanwhile, has set to work at replacing the floor with glass and polished stone, a thrown-together temporary structure. As he places the final few, the curtain above swings violently aside and someone else strides through. 

“I wanna help!” Cleo announces her presence to the room of one. 

Mumbo frowns. “I thought you were going to stay back for this one? Lying in wait and all that?”

“Nah, Ren let me up here. He said you had a bunch o’ buttons and levers, and I’m feeling trigger happy.” She grins before noticing the disgruntled hermit searching for an exit to the pit underneath. 

“Haven’t you started the system yet?” Cleo crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow at Mumbo, who jumps slightly.

“Ah, right, I do have to do that, don’t I,” he fumbles, engaging a lever in the far right corner of the panel. “Right. Got it.”

Cleo turns her attention to the hermit, who is now examining the newly opened wall before them. “Enjoy the labyrinth!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back, and i brought more characters!


	10. Labyrinth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look guys i know it's been a while but i've finally finished so the last few chapters should be up soon... thank you all for being so patient!

A red carpeted corridor, surrounded by the stone bricks of the labyrinth, looms ahead. The hermit gives a final glance to the two working the controls, and steps forward into the maze. At Mumbo’s flick of a lever, the wall seals again, leaving the hermit to brave whatever dangers lie ahead. 

The hall is dimly lit by the glow of redstone torches, leaving shadows untamed and flickering, the movement causing the hermit’s nerves to be on high alert. Turning the corner, they carefully take a step only to immediately retract it as the carpet falls away into a pitfall trap. They press their back to the wall and take short steps sideways, avoiding the cavernous hole. 

The next room is darker than the ones previous, so it comes as no surprise when a skeleton’s arrow whooshes past the hermit’s head, ruffling their hair as it passes. Reflexes firing, the hermit dodges the airy missile and reaches the skeleton in a split second, slaying it with a quick swipe of their sword. They pause to pick up the bones that are left, rolling them between their fingers before continuing ahead. 

The next hallways have open ceilings topping their high walls. The hermit hears a low swooping noise, and whips their head upwards, expecting phantoms; they are met instead with an egg to the face as a Grian-shaped figure in a chicken mask dives and glides jarringly around the space, spamming missiles of gooey egg to deter the hermit’s progress, giggling maniacally. They shield themselves as best they can and move forward, only to be hit by a stronger object, one that stings their face and nearly knocks them over; Stress, also soaring overhead, is flinging snowballs with all her might at the hermit. When they move to dodge the projectiles, the wall adjacent suddenly shoots outward, smacking and knocking the wind out of the hermit. No doubt Cleo has gotten a turn at the controls, her precision catching them square in the chest. After a moment, covered in snow and raw egg, the hermit moves on. 

The high ceilings have been replaced with those of glass, the hermit notes as they continue forward. They can now see the two seated above at the control panel, who cheekily wave at the hermit’s less-than-ideal situation. A more open room awaits them, with a shower of light falling on the center from the skylight-like ceiling, but with corners dark and unnavigable. A low growling emanates from one of the corners, accompanied by two glowing ruby-red eyes, as the wall seals yet again, leaving the only exit behind the creature in the corner. The hermit is trapped inside with the source of the growling, which, with a movement that separates the shadows, reveals itself to be a mangy wolf, teeth bared and ears back. Its haunches coil as it prepares for a pounce, and the hermit, sealed in the room with no method of escape, closes their eyes in a defensive stance, bracing for impact-

But the wolf stops a foot from the hermit and tilts its head. Realizing that the skeleton’s bone from before is still in their hand, the hermit lets out an audible chuckle at the wolf’s now almost domestic nature, tossing it the bone and moving on.

The next room seems to be the final one. At first glance, it seems to be a simple one, circular in shape with a bit of Deadquarters flair, as evidenced by the moss and iron bars scattered among the walls. But it is not the room that poses a threat. Rather, it is what the hermit sees in it that threatens the most danger of any of the challenges so far.


	11. Decay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters in one week? ya girl got inspired!

The hermit’s gaze is drawn to the darker hemisphere of the room, where the shadows seem almost to be shifting. The displacement of light continues, increasing in speed and intensity as the hermit draws closer. Warily, they crane their neck, straining to see the source of the odd phenomenon-

A loud BANG echoes throughout the room and the hermit is knocked onto their back. They hit the stone floor, hard, and whip their head upward at the strange creature hovering menacingly above them, pulsating with a strange energy which raises the hermit’s hair on end.

The wither.

The hermit has fought such creatures before, but not in such an enclosed space, and not with such fragile gear. They grit their teeth and roll aside as the wither lets out an unearthly shriek and sends a blast of energy hurtling directly at them. The wall is thrust violently apart by the intensity, leaving a gap large enough to see through. The stone corridors of the labyrinth are visible through the missing blocks, but the possible chance of escape is dashed when the hermit sees a rising pool of lava seeping through the floor of the maze. The few seconds of desperately searching for an escape were an unfortunate few, however, and another pulse from the wither sends the hermit sprawling. Lowered health tells the hermit of the damage done, but the feeling of a cracked rib is more of an indicator.

Fueled with adrenaline, the hermit dodges the next blast. Calling upon the utmost of their skill, they charge the wither and manage to get in a few hits before another raging attack emerges from it. Taking the hit well, they continue their onslaught, sword slashing and whistling through the air with a practiced delicacy. Face to face, the wither and the hermit fight their foe, a whirling dance of deadliness and merciless strikes. Duck, dodge, stab, weave, jab, maneuver after maneuver earn the hermit an advantage, if for only a second, to be won again with every move. The intensity of the wither grows. Its screams become more desperate, pulses shimmering with an unearthly aura that becomes brighter with each assault. The two are well matched, and so the battle rages on.

Although they are increasingly gaining an edge on the wither, the hermit begins to tire. Health is at a hazardous point, with barely a second to grab bites of golden carrots on the edge of the room. The walls’ conditions have worsened now, and barely a block stands between the hermit and the fiery arena of lava. One false step could be the end of the hermit, one false move a deadly ultimatum. Bruised, damaged, and tired, the hermit summons up the last of their might. 

They lift their head to glare directly at the wither, whose dead eyes almost taunt them in return. Gathering all that remains of their strength, the hermit takes in a breath and charges directly at the wither.

As they run, time seems to move in slow motion. Flashes of memories spring to the forefront of the hermit’s mind. Happy days in the sun. Friendly business rivalries. The feel of wind on their back, swooping with their best of friends on gossamer wings. 

There are tears in the hermit’s eyes as they charge the wither. With desperate blows, they pummel it with all they have, with all they are, with every ounce of strength in their body. Blow after blow is landed, the hermit taking damage by the second, but barely noticing it in their onslaught. As their sword bites each stinging strike, they falter, despite their best efforts of endurance. The assault is too much for any mortal to upkeep, and as their limbs give out from underneath them, the hermit drops to the ground, having fought with all that they had, their body a mere shadow on the floor. Wearily, they drop their head.

But the room is silent. The screams of the wither, echoed by those in the hermit’s head, shriek no more.


	12. Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Final Chapter.

The hermit slowly lifts their head. The darkness is cut through with an ethereal glow, centered in the spot where the shrieking monster once was. It is all that remains of the horrible beast. The source of the light, an iridescent rarity, spins slowly, inviting the hermit to claim their prize. They struggle over to it, and grab the nether star that is their trophy, turning it over in their hands, feeling its almost nonexistent weight.  
The maze is over. The hermit has completed the trials. Surely, now, they will be able to leave the hell that is this mansion. Surely the dead will have mercy…

“Let’s talk.”  
The hermit has been extracted from the maze. They are in a stone-walled room, dim light filtering in through a red-tinted stained glass window at one end. The rest is as barren as most of the Deadquarters. They face two domineering figures, in robes of black and grey. The presence of these two seems to lower the temperature of the entire chamber, and the hermit shivers despite themselves. For these two are the most menacing among the dead. The hermit faces Cub, efficient killer, and Ren, the Grim Reaper himself. 

“You have done well, warmblood,” the cloaked figure remarks. “But the final task is yet to come. Ready or not, you are to face perhaps your greatest fear. And this challenge will not be so forgiving.”

Cub smirks from the corner. “My designs are very… effective.”

Ren continues, but the hermit can hardly hear him. A ringing fills their ears, drowning out all but a trace of the dead’s voice. A new focus fills them, strengthens them. They will not continue playing the dead’s games. They will not let what has overcome their friends defeat them as well. The hermit’s head clears, and they know what they must do.  
The hermit braces themselves, and hurtles headfirst out the stained glass window. Red shards cascade around them, the sounds of broken glass mixing with the shouts of Ren and Cub. Straining to control their plummet, the hermit dives into one of the waterfalls gushing down the edge of the ominous island. The water breaks their fall, and the hermit is off the second they touch ground in the murky swamp. 

Swimming as fast as they can, they head for the red-tinted shop at the edge of the cluster of buildings before them. As they emerge from the water, dripping, the sounds of engaging elytra can be heard from behind. The hermit sprints ever faster to the shulker full of dynamite at the center of the crimson shop, pulling handfuls upon handfuls of it out of the box. They search frantically for flint and steel, quickly grabbing a set from its spot on the wall. 

A quick turn reveals several grey-skinned hermits bearing down on them from above, some coming close enough to graze the hermit’s hair as they dodge. Lungs burning, every muscle in their body screaming at them to stop, the hermit runs like they have never run before to the swirling purple mist encased in obsidian that lies at the mouth of an ivory skull. Cub reaches it first, and blade meets flesh as his diamond sword slashes the exposed skin of the hermit’s arm. Blood springs up, a scarlet pool among the maroon of the dynamite they clutch in their now-soaked hand. Wincing, they kick Cub away as best they can. He falls into the slime of the swamp, springing up to come in for another blow.

The hermit knows they must act quickly, but it feels as if time slows down as they approach the nether portal. 

They jump the final few steps to the base of obsidian.

They place as much of the dynamite as they can, encasing the portal in a sea of crimson.

They take a breath.

And the hermit lights the dynamite. It flashes with a deep finality, distorted by the purple of the portal.

The dynamite explodes.

Magnified by the enchantment of the portal, the dynamite has a devastating effect on the area-and hermits- around it.

But for the hermit, everything goes dark.

…

…

…

…

…

Cub?

Scar?

Is it… really you?

It’s me, buddy.

I missed you so much  
...

...

Joe!

Cleo!

We’re alive!

Well, technically you’re still dead… heh

I missed you, you bloody idiot

I missed you too, Cleo  
...

...

Shishwamy! Bubbles!

Hey, buddy!

We’re back… we’re back!  
...

...

ZED!

TANGO!

C’mere, buddy!

It’s been so long!

Guys?

IMPULSE??

IMPULSE!!

We’re alive!

Alive!  
...

…

Mumbo….

Grian! You’re ok!

What have I done…

No, no, no. It wasn’t your fault.

I started all this…

Grian, listen to me. It’s all ok! We’re ok!

We’re… ok…

That’s it. Come here, buddy. 

It’s over. It’s finally over. 

…

Guys?

Where’s Iskall?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with this story through the ups and downs, through the cliffhangers and hiatuses. This is my first published work and it has received such overwhelmingly positive reactions. Thank you, all of you, who commented, left kudos, or even just read the chapters of Death's Beating Heart! I love you all <3  
> -Storm


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